Some Souvenirs Are More Useful Than Others
by Nancy Kaminski
Summary: Sequel to the Tale of the Shillelagh O' Doom. Yet another explanation of why Nick keeps that stake in his living room.


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"Some Souvenirs are More Useful Than Others"  
A one-part sequel to "The Tale of the Shillelagh o' Doom"  
by Nancy Kaminski  
(c) November 1999  
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After I posted "The Tale of the Shillelagh o' Doom," which was written  
as a sort-of explanation of why Nick would keep a stake in his living  
room, Lisa McDavid requested a sequel. Like a good little list member,  
I obeyed. McLisa, this is your fault. g  
  
Dedicated to Cindy Ingram, in the hopes that this bit o' fluff will  
cheer her up a bit after the passing of her beloved doggie, Nellie.  
I'm thinking of you, Cindy.  
  
Permission is given to archive this on the FK Fanfic site. Everyone  
else, please ask permission.  
  
Consider the usual disclaimers duly made.  
  
If you haven't read "The Tale of the Shillelagh o' Doom," this might  
not make a lot of sense. Drop me a note and I'll send it to you.  
  
And now, on with the nonsense...  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
London, 1770  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
"Hello, Nicholas."  
  
Nick froze for a second, then swung down from his horse and handed the  
reins to the waiting stableboy without looking in the direction of the  
speaker. "Have the farrier look at that near fore," he instructed the  
boy, "he's off on it."  
  
"Aye, Mr. Scanlon, sir," the boy answered. Tugging on the reins, he  
led the animal, a rawboned gelding of a truly hideous orange-chestnut  
color, into the depths of the lamp-lit stable. Nick's visitor could  
hear the boy murmuring endearments to the gelding as they disappeared  
into the dim interior.  
  
Without acknowledging his visitor, Nick walked out of the stableyard  
and to the inn's front entrance.  
  
"What an ungainly brute, Nicholas. Surely you could have done better,"  
the visitor commented as he followed Nick into the inn and up the  
stairs to the rooms above.  
  
Nick stopped on the staircase, turned, and said irritably, "You didn't  
track me down just to insult my horse, did you, Lacroix?"  
  
"Not at all," Lacroix answered. "Surely you can't object to my  
stopping in to inquire as to your welfare? After all, I haven't seen  
you for, what," he made an elaborate show of calculating the  
passage of time, "six months? Has it been that long?" He shook his  
head sorrowfully. "Long enough, alas, for you to have acquired that  
unfortunate animal. What did the boy call him? 'Caddy?'"  
  
" 'Cadwallader,' " Nick answered shortly, resuming his way upstairs.  
"And no, I didn't name him, the dragoon officer I bought him from did.  
I suppose you must come in."  
  
"Such a gracious invitation. Thank you, Nicholas---it's Scanlon this  
time? I believe I shall."  
  
Fuming, Nick unlocked the door to his suite of rooms. He had managed  
to win free from his master for almost half a year by decamping to a  
country he knew Lacroix would avoid, but in the end even Nick had had  
enough of Ireland's provincial charms. Therefore he had purchased the  
unfortunately-named gelding and headed back to London and the  
pleasures of the big city. Once there, it had taken only a week for  
Lacroix to sense his presence and appear. *And he hates London,* Nick  
thought in irritation. *Why couldn't he have gone off to Paris or Rome  
while I was gone?*  
  
Nick entered the sitting room and, removing his cloak, flung it at a  
convenient chair. Lacroix removed his own cloak more leisurely,  
surveying his errant son's accommodations as his folded it neatly and  
laid it across the chair.  
  
"At least your rooms are suitable." He settled into the best chair by  
the fire and stretched out his legs, obviously intended to stay the  
evening. "So where have you been these last six months?"  
  
"Ireland." Nick reluctantly sat in the other, more uncomfortable  
chair, and stared at the fire, resigned to his master's presence.  
  
A look of distaste passed over the elder vampire's austere features.  
"Even London looks civilized in comparison to Ireland. Whatever did  
you find to occupy yourself in that wasteland of culture?"  
  
Nick wasn't about to confess to his most recent stint as a sheepherder  
and carouche mentor, not even to irritate his sire---it was too  
embarrassing. He glanced over at Lacroix and said, "Travelling, that  
is all. It's a beautiful country."  
  
"I daresay, if you like unwashed peasants and peat bogs. Really,  
Nicholas..." Lacroix's voice trailed off as his eyes caught sight of  
something propped against the side of the mantel. "What is that?"  
  
Nick followed the direction of his sire's gaze. "Oh, just a souvenir I  
acquired in my travels," he said carelessly. He stood and retrieved  
the object in question.  
  
"Nicholas..." Lacroix's voice was flat and held an edge of menace---or  
was that unease? "Why do you have a stake in your rooms?"  
  
Nick felt his irritation suddenly melt away and his sometimes  
unfortunate sense of humor start to overtake his good sense.  
Recklessly, he let it have its way. *This could be fun,* he thought.  
"Nonsense, Lacroix," he said cheerfully, "This isn't a stake, it's a  
shillelagh." He twirled it rather theatrically and held it out for his  
sire's inspection---point first. "Nicely carved, isn't it? A farmer  
named O'Malley gave it to me."  
  
To his credit, Lacroix didn't flinch an iota at the lethally sharp  
wooden walking stick aimed, seemingly by accident, at his heart.  
Instead he stared icily up at Nick. "You seem to be making a habit of  
acquiring unfortunate mementos of your travels---that hideous animal,  
and now this pathetic example of barbaric Celtic folk art. Perhaps you  
should seek my counsel before spending your money so ill-advisedly."  
  
Nick shrugged and let the shillelagh's pointed end drop to the floor.  
" 'De gustibus non est disputandum,' " he quoted. "There is no  
accounting for taste, Lacroix. You don't see me questioning your small  
but rather self-involved collection of Pompeiian busts, do you?  
Besides, this was a gift. It would have been ungracious to refuse it."  
He sat back down in his chair, but didn't return the shillelagh to its  
former place. Instead he toyed idly with it while looking at his sire  
with a blandly innocent expression.  
  
Lacroix winced internally, not only at the sight of his mercurial son  
playing with a deadly weapon so casually, but at his Gaullish-accented  
Latin. Nick had never lost the accent despite Lacroix's tutoring, much  
to the former Roman general's disgust. Belatedly he wondered if it was  
deliberate ineptitude and not simply a tin ear as he had supposed.  
  
"Do put that damned thing down, Nicholas," he said testily. "Surely  
you realize how idiotic it is to keep dangerous toys like that out in  
plain view."  
  
"Oh, is it making you nervous? I do apologize." Nick smiled  
insincerely and propped his lethal souvenir against the side of his  
chair, within easy reach. "So few of the people I entertain understand  
its more---esoteric---uses. Most just assume it's a shillelagh, and a  
rather handsome one at that."  
  
Lacroix snorted and pointedly changed the subject. For the next hour  
he expertly interrogated Nick about his actions during his half year  
of freedom, and for a change the younger man answered without  
annoyance. In fact, he regaled his sire with amusing stories,  
punctuating them with gestures with the shillelagh. Occasionally he  
would almost hit his sire with the walking stick and then apologize  
profusely.  
  
Nick noted that while he narrated his travels, Lacroix's eyes  
occasionally drifted towards the shillelagh and a frown would crease  
the patrician features. Each time that happened Nick made sure to  
emphasize a point with his souvenir. Lacroix, on his part, pretended  
not to notice, although his expression became more and more strained  
and his thoughts were plainly not on the conversation.  
  
After a particularly extravagant gesture from Nick almost struck him  
on the arm, Lacroix had had enough. He suddenly stood and announced,  
"I must be off."  
  
Nick halted in mid-sentence and raised an eyebrow. "So soon, Lacroix?  
Why, you've just arrived, and we haven't seen each other for *so*  
long. And you haven't told me what you've been doing---I fear my  
enthusiastic tales have not allowed you to get a word in edgewise." He  
contrived to look regretful and was only partially successful.  
  
"I've just remembered an errand I must take care of immediately," the  
elder vampire said with dignity. He glared at his irritating son for a  
moment, but his eyes inevitably drifted down to the shillelagh, which  
Nick was absently tossing gently back and forth between his hands. "I  
shall call again when it is more convenient." And with a small whoosh  
of displaced air, he was gone.  
  
Nick listened to the fast-retreating footsteps, then lay back in his  
chair and laughed helplessly. Gasping, he kissed the shillelagh and  
proclaimed, "Thank you, Farmer O'Malley! I never dreamed your gift  
would come in so useful!"  
  
From now on, he vowed, the shillelagh would be a permanent fixture of  
his rooms, wherever they may be.  
  
As a walking stick, the shillelagh had a certain rustic charm. But as  
Lacroix repellant, it was utterly priceless.  
  
Perhaps, he mused, grinning to himself, he would be able to enjoy his  
stay in London after all.  
  
FINIS  
  
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Comments, criticisms, and impulsive Belgians may be  
directed to nancykam@mediaone.net  
====================================================  
  
  



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